


When Your Heart Was Open Wide, and You Loved Things Just Because

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff and Angst, Kid Fic, M/M, No Underage Sex, References to Past Child Abuse, but also lots of cute fluffy bits I promise you, but no underage! I promise!, nothing like that, references to Celtic mythology, the description sounds silly but the fic really isn't very...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:38:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby is somehow alive again, Crowley has undergone some... unexpected changes, and nobody's really sure how to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Bobby couldn't possibly explain what it felt like to be in heaven one second and alive again the next. He couldn't even explain why or how it happened. All he knows is that he's back, alive and whole and filled with the sneaking suspicion that someone's done something monumentally stupid.

  
He finds a phone booth within walking distance of the empty field he appeared in and calls Dean up with the change he finds in his pocket.

  
Dean hangs up on him.

  
He calls back and swears at the kid until he agrees to come get him. As it turns out, he's been dropped off not far from the bunker, so it doesn't take long for the Impala to pull up and for Dean, Sam and Cas to pile out, each wearing a wary squint. As they run through the usual battery of tests (holy water, salt, letting Cas scan him with angel mojo), Bobby realizes something: they're just as confused and startled as he is, which means they weren't responsible for his reappearance.

  
He points this out, and they all look at each other in bewilderment, and dammit, he missed these idiots so much that he has no choice but to yank all three of them into a hug. Dean claps him on the back immediately, Sam hesitates only a second before returning the hug, and Cas goes stiff as a board until someone nudges him and he wraps an arm around Bobby's shoulders. Bobby laughs and holds them all a little tighter before letting them go to step back and say, "Alright, we better figure out what the hell's goin' on."

  
They drive back to the bunker together and Dean goes about making lunch while Bobby, Sam and Cas hit the books, trying to come up with an explanation for the sudden reanimation. They flip through books, search the internet for other bizarre reappearances– nothing matches up.

  
Suddenly Dean sticks his head into the room, waving a spatula triumphantly. "I got it," he announces. "But you're not gonna like it."

  
"Well, we've got nothing, so it's gotta be better than that," Bobby shrugs. "Hit me."

  
"Who do we know," Dean says slowly, still waving the spatula, "That's got connections to the afterlife, and has had a very serious interest in Bobby's soul staying on earth? Not to mention this same… person has been feeling especially sentimental and needy lately."

  
Sam's eyes widen and Bobby groans and drops his head to the tabletop. "You gotta be kidding me."

  
"Crowley," Dean finishes, looking smug. "I bet you anything that smarmy douche had something to do with this."

  
"But we don't know whether Crowley, in his weakened state, has enough power or influence to pull a soul fro heaven," Cas says with a worried frown. "Even at the height of his reign he couldn't fully stop Bobby from ascending."

  
"Only one way to find out for sure," Dean counters. "Let's call the bastard up, arrange a meeting and get him on lockdown again in the dungeon."

  
"I'd like to avoid the torture option," Sam says dryly. "But it might help to talk to him. I'd say he's the best lead we've got at the moment."

  
Bobby nods in agreement and Dean tugs out his phone and dials up the former king of hell. They wait a few beats, and then he glares and growls into the speaker, "Crowley, answer the damn phone. We know you did something screwy and I'm not in the mood to play phone tag."

  
"No answer," Sam sighs. "Perfect."

  
"Yeah, I'm not givin' him time to disappear," Dean mutters, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "Cas, can you zap us to wherever that prick is hiding?"

  
"Not exactly," the angel admits with a tilt of his head. "He will likely have warded whatever place he has chosen to hide in. I will bring you as close as I can get, though."

  
"Go for it," Bobby says, and Cas reaches a hand out.

  
Dean starts to say, "Cas, no, lunch first-!" but by the time the words leave his lips they're already standing in a motel hallway.  
"Dammit, Cas," Dean grumbles, and the angel shrugs apologetically.

  
"Well, we're here now," Sam says, glancing around. "So he's in one of these rooms. Do we just start knocking until we find the right one?"

  
Bobby turns to look down the other side of the hall, pausing when he sees a line of salt under the nearest door and a smudge of what could be but probably isn't red paint on the handle. "I don't think we're gonna have to look that hard."

  
He reaches out to test the lock, surprised when the door opens easily. "If he's hiding, you'd think he'd at least lock the door."

  
They exchange suspicious loos, and each of them draws a weapon, Dean passing a gun to Bobby as they step over the salt and into the room, leaving Cas to stand watch in the hall.

  
It's a chaotic mess of sigils, overturned furniture and books, and the air smells like smoke and copper and herbs. In one corner is a sprawled corpse, eyes vacant and smelling strongly of sulphur; Bobby looks the guy over but doesn't recognize him. The table next to the bed holds a half-empty bowl of congealing blood and a dozen candles.

  
Dean opens the bathroom door with knife raised, shakes his head. "I got nothin'."

  
"Nothing," Sam echoes, peering into the closet.

  
Bobby huffs in frustration, goes to take a seat on the bed and examine the scattered books there. As he sits, he hears a faint gasp and a furtive scuffle. Tensing, he gesture for the boys to be quiet, then points down at the mattress. They nod, and he ducks down, reaches under the bed and hauls out a small, squirming figure who shrieks in alarm.

  
They all stare in equal bemusement, first at the person fighting against Bobby's hold, then at one another, then back again.

  
"It's a kid," Sam says at last, brows furrowed.

  
"Yeah, no shit," Dean snaps, looking uncertain.

  
"Geroffme!" The kid yells indecipherably, kicking and thrashing, and Bobby hoists him up and sets him on the bed.

  
"Calm down," he commands gruffly, stepping back but not putting the gun away. "Why the hell is a kid here?"

  
"Man, I don't wanna know," Dean says, shaking his head.

  
Bobby makes a face and turns back to the boy. He looks about ten years old, with dark shaggy hair and big, slightly sunken eyes. He's scrawny under an oversized, rough undershirt and trousers. "Where's Crowley?"

  
The kid doesn't answer, skinny chest moving shallowly as his breathing speeds up and his eyes dart from hunter to hunter, looking like a trapped animal.

  
"Hey!" Dean barks, and the child flinches. "Answer the question, short stuff."

  
"I- I dunno," the boy replies, voice breaking under a thick brogue. "I dunno who that is."

  
"The guy who brought you here!" Dean takes a step forward, fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife.

  
"I-" The kid's words quaver, eyes shining with fear. "I don't-"

  
"Dean, you're freaking him out," Sam warns.

  
"Hey, just 'cause it looks like a kid doesn't mean it is one!" Dean goes to step closer to the bed but Bobby catches his arm to stop him.

  
The kid looks on the verge of tears, blinking hard as he avoids meeting anyone's gaze. "I wanna go home," he says, clearly fighting to keep his voice from shaking or the tears from falling. "I wuh- want my mum."

  
Bobby can't help it; he doesn't know this kid but he knows that look, knows that small voice and fearful, curled-in posture. He lowers his gun and crouches in front of the bed, trying to catch the kid's gaze. "What's your name, kiddo?"

  
The boy sniffs, glances up quickly and then away, tiny hands curled into the blankets. "Fergus."

  
Dean snorts in the background, then freezes as the same recognition strikes all of the hunters. Sam clears his throat and asks, "Fergus… what?"

  
The boy lifts his head a little, snub nose wrinkled and eyes squinted in a way that's almost disturbingly familiar. "MacLoed," he says slowly, and Bobby feels his stomach sink. "Fergus Roderick MacLeod."


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

"Bullshit."

 

"Dean-"

  
"No, I call bullshit!" Dean gestures at the kid, who flinches. "That's not Crowley. No way. That's some kid Crowley left here to trip us up."

  
"One way to find out," Bobby says. "Cas! Come in here!"

  
The angel steps into the room, frowning, and stops short when he catches sight of the boy. "Uhh…"

  
Dean jabs a finger at the kid and demands, "Who or what is that?"

  
Castiel blinks, squints and cocks his head, like he's peering into the boy's soul– which he probably is. Finally he says, "It… he would appear to be human."

  
"Okay, good start…" Sam says, lowering his gun. "Um, can you tell how- how old he is?"

  
"An estimate?"

  
"Sure."

  
"Roughly 360 years old."

  
Dean sputters, and the boy lets out an indignant, "Am not!"

  
"So he is Crowley," Bobby sighs. "Or… Fergus. Whatever. Same thing."

  
"What do we do?" Sam asks uneasily.

  
"Well, we can't leave him here," Bobby replies, glancing around at the bloody mess of a room.

  
"Agreed," Cas nods, and in the blink of an eye they're back in the bunker. Fergus yelps in alarm, looking around wildly at the sudden change of scenery, and Sam automatically reaches out to steady the boy, who dodges his hand and goes running down the nearest hallway.

  
"Hey!" Dean goes running after him, Bobby close behind, and snags him by the back of the shirt, hauling him back into the room. Fergus kicks and flails angrily, growling threats in his tiny gruff voice. "Alright, you know what?" Dean snaps, opening the nearest door and chucking the kid in, slamming it shut after. "Takes care of that."

  
"…Which room was that?" Sam asks, looking torn between relief and disapproval.

  
"Just a bedroom." Dean dusts his hands off. "I figure at least that way he's in one spot, can't do too much damage while we figure out what the hell's going on."

  
"Fair enough," Bobby agrees, folding his arms. To be fair, he's never really seen Crowley as a menace so much as a nuisance; he doubts he's gonna be more destructive as a human child than he was as a demonic overlord. "Whaddya say we discuss it over that lunch you were fixin' up?"

  
They crowd around the table outside the kitchen while Dean plates up the grilled cheese sandwiches (complaining that they're cold now thanks to the interruption) and hand-cut fries he's made. While the boys are hunched over their meals and books, Bobby hesitates, grabs a paper plate from the shelf and nudges half his sandwich onto it, piles a handful of fries on and fills a plastic cup with juice before putting it all onto a tray.

  
Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. "What're you doing?"

  
Bobby shrugs. "He's a kid. If he's anything like you two squirts were, he's gonna be hungry." He steps out of the room before he can hear any further comments on the idea of 'feeding the enemy', heading down the hall and knocking at the door. "Hey, I'm coming in so don't throw anything at me."

  
The only answer he gets is a quiet scuffle, so he opens the door and sticks his head in. Fergus is crouched on the other side of the bed, back pressed to the wall and watching the hunter sharply. He glares as Bobby enters the room, but his eyes are reddened and he looks more like a stray kitten than a dangerous demon-child. When Bobby approaches the bed, the boy growls out, "What d'ye want?"

  
The hunter shakes his head. "Well, for starters, a little cooperation wouldn't hurt."

  
At that, the kid seems to shrink in on himself even more, but he's clearly trying to sound intimidating when he bites out, "I dunno what the Father told you, but if you… if you lot are gonnae try somethin', I- I'll fight back. I don't care how bad you beat me, I'll not make it easy for ye. I'll bite, I'll bite hard and I'll kick and- and-"

  
His voice trails off and Bobby swears he feels a ball of ice drop into the hollow of his chest. "We're not," he promises, putting the tray onto the bed and holding his hands up, palms out in the universal gesture of 'I mean no harm'. "Nobody's gonna hurt you, okay? We're not- that's not what this is about."

  
Fergus looks wary but less certain of his anger. "Then what is it? Did the Father send me to work for you?"

  
"Your father?" Bobby asks, sinking slowly to a crouch on the other side of the bed, at eye-level with the kid.

  
The boy shakes his head, staring at Bobby like he should know all this. " _The_ Father. The one from the church. I dunno who _my_ father is."

  
"Christ." Bobby moves the plate and cup onto the bedside table and stands back, hands on his hips. "Awright, kiddo, I know it ain't what your mom makes but give it a try, huh?"

  
Fergus' little face scrunches up in the classic expression of a kid trying not to tear up. "Me mum's dead," he says quietly, looking at the floor.

  
"Ah, jeez," Bobby takes his cap off and runs his fingers through his hair, sitting on the bed. It's not like he _wants_ to sympathize with Crowley– or, well, what will be Crowley– but dammit if the poor kid doesn't tug at his heartstrings like nobody's business. It doesn't help that he'd already grown more than a little fond of the demon before he got dropped on his ass into this garbage dump of a situation. "Well, look, Cr- Fergus. I know it ain't much comfort, but I'll tell you something: you're not alone there. And I promise none of us are out to do you any kinda harm." He may be fudging the details a little there on Dean's behalf but he's pretty sure even he won't really hurt a kid.

  
Fergus side-eyes him for a moment, but then crawls up onto the mattress and, keeping his eye on Bobby all the while, snatches the tray of food. He picks up the sandwich and peels it open, peering at it suspiciously before taking a bite. He chews briefly, then inhales the rest of the sandwich faster than Bobby can blink. The old hunter laughs a little as the kid proceeds to decimate the fries. "I guess the love of junk food started early for you, then," he comments, remembering Crowley's thing for pizza.

  
The boy's still finishing off the fries in between gulps of juice when the Winchesters walk in. He freezes, eyes wide, then goes pelting off the bed and back to the corner, clutching a fistful of fries. Bobby throws his hands up, halting the other hunters and hurrying to say, "Hey! It's okay, everything's still okay. Nobody's hurting anybody." He looks meaningfully back and forth between them. "Right?"

  
"Yeah," Sam says with a slow nod, showing his own hands and standing against the wall. "We just came by to check up on you."

  
"Makin' sure he's not going all Rosemary's Baby on you," Dean adds. He's not holding any weapons, though, thank god, and he makes no threatening moves as he steps aside to let Cas into the room as well.

  
"Who are you?" Fergus asks, creeping forward to peep over the edge of the bed. "You're not priests. You dress strange. And you talk strange. Are you Northmen?"

  
"Oh, uh…" Sam looks considerate. "I guess kind of? But not… we're not Vikings."

  
Fergus just looks confused. Bobby sighs.

  
"I'm Bobby," he says. "This is Sam, Dean, and that's Cas."

  
"And you're not Northmen?"

  
"No, we're… hunters." Sam explains. "We kill evil things."

  
"And he's our angel," Dean points a thumb at Cas, who looks pleased to be included.

  
Fergus stares hard at Cas, crawling up onto the bed again. "I don't believe in angels," he says defiantly.

  
"You and me both, kid," Dean mutters under his breath. Castiel glances at him, then back at Fergus.

  
"I assure you, angels are very real," he says, carefully, like he's trying not to offend anyone.

  
Fergus shakes his head. "If angels were real then they'd be good like Father Abbot says and they'd've saved me mum."

  
Sam and Cas look simultaneously concerned, while Dean looks uncomfortable. "What happened to her?" Bobby asks gently.

  
The boy squirms and looks away. "Some people hanged 'er. Then they tied her to a cart and dragged 'er through the streets and then they burned her."

  
They all stare at the kid in alarm, and then Sam snaps his fingers. "That's right, didn't he mention his mom being a witch?"

  
"She never hurt anybody!" Fergus snaps defensively. "She just made potions and protections for people that asked! And half the people she gave 'em to were there when she was hanged! But they didn't get in _any_ trouble, and _she_ got killed!"

  
Everyone is silent for a while. Finally Bobby speaks up. "And you got sent to live at the church, where orphans got sent back then."

  
"I hate it," Fergus says vehemently. "I hate them."

  
"Yeah," Bobby replies with a nod. "I'd be inclined to agree with you on some of that."  
  


 


	3. Chapter 3

They bring Fergus out into the den, park him on the floor in front of Sam's laptop with an episode of _Adventure Time_ and duck into the next room to talk.

  
"Well, I feel like I need a shower to scrub that little flashback away," Dean comments, leaning against the wall.

  
Bobby sighs and crosses his arms. "You guys find anything that might explain how he got zapped back a few hundred years to the dark ages?"

  
Sam shrugs. "It's pretty hard to say. He was sort of partially human before, but we don't know if it was enough for him to be affected by, say, a witch's spell or something like that."

  
"Maybe he remembers what happened?" Cas suggests. "He is a child but he may be able to tell us what did this to him, maybe even help us to figure out how to cure him."

  
"Not a bad idea," Bobby nods. "But I dunno how willing he'd be to talk to us, 'specially if he still thinks we're out to keep treating him the way he's been treated."

  
"So, what?" Dean asks with a raised brow. "You want us to give him some candy and hold his hand? Take him to a therapist?"  
"I think just not threatening him would be a good start," Sam shifts and glances at the doorway.

  
"Exactly." Bobby points at him, adding, "He's a kid, and he hasn't made any real efforts to trouble us. I'm not saying we drop all our defenses, I'm just sayin' maybe we don't need to go about it the hard way."

  
Dean grunts indecisively. "Fine."

  
They go around the corner and stick their heads back into the room where they left Fergus, only to find that the kid's passed out on the carpet, the cartoon still playing on Sam's laptop. "I suppose he has had a rather trying day," Cas says as they look down at the tiny future tyrant.

  
"I'll get him back to his room," Bobby volunteers, realizing that Fergus probably won't appreciate waking up to the four strange men who kidnapped and threatened him looming over him. He waves the others away, saying, "I got plenty of practice moving kids without waking 'em from you two rugrats. You used to conk out on my sofa trying to wait up for your dad." He stands slowly and drapes little Fergus against his shoulder, one arm around the kid's middle and the other supporting his bottom. The boy mumbles something Gaelic-sounding but doesn't wake.

  
Sam, Dean and Cas step out of the way and watch the older hunter go by, their expressions ranging from concerned to constipated. Bobby heads down the hallway and toes the bedroom door open, bumping the light switch with his elbow. He carefully slides the still-sleeping boy under the covers, nestles his head into the pillow. Fergus snuffles quietly and curls his small body into a comma shape, fists tucked under his chin. Bobby stands in the doorway a moment, trying to reconcile the image of this frightened, damaged boy with the frightening, damaged man he will become. He sighs and shakes his head, turns off the light and closes the door.

 


	4. Chapter 4

(Sorry this one's pretty short; the next chapter will be longer! As always, I welcome feedback!)

~

 

There's not a whole helluva lot they can do while their only possible informant is sleeping, so they spend a few more hours combing through the library and internet with little result before heading to bed themselves.

  
Dean wakes up early, rolling out of bed and padding quietly past Cas, who is in a sort of angelic power-save mode in a nearby chair. He does a quick check on all the security systems and makes sure nothing's out of place before getting to work on breakfast. The coffeemaker is burbling away and Dean is whisking eggs in a bowl when he glances down and sees Fergus standing at his elbow, blinking up at him.

  
"Jesus!" He jumps back, managing not to drop the bowl but spilling egg onto his shirt. "What the hell, kid! You trying to gimme a heart attack or what?"

  
The boy jerks away at the sound of his raised voice, darting over to the table to shield himself behind a chair. "Sorry," he says quickly, not looking at the hunter.

  
Dean sighs, sets the bowl onto the counter and grabs a paper towel to wipe at his shirt. "Relax, I'm not gonna hit you. You just– damn, kid, you popped up outta nowhere. You sure you don't still have your weird demon teleporting power?"

  
Fergus looks at him uncertainly. "Sorry," he says again. "I was jest curious."

  
"Yeah, about what?" Dean dabs at the wet spot on the fabric one more time, frowning and hoping egg doesn't stain. "Breakfast?"

  
"You're makin' breakfast? I thought y'were workin' on a spell." The boy stares at the bowl.

  
Dean almost laughs. "Yeah, I'm making some magic scrambled eggs and fuckin' enchanted pancakes." He chucks the paper towel into the garbage, glances at the kid, raising a brow. "…You wanna help?"

  
Fergus looks up at him with wide eyes, looks around the kitchen and bites his lip before turning back to Dean. "Alright."  
  



	5. Chapter 5

  
Sam wakes up to a loud clatter from down the hall. He jerks up in bed, hair wild and eyes half-open, and goes stumbling toward the source of the sound in his t-shirt and boxers. The kitchen is bright and warm and alive with the smell of cinnamon, toast, coffee and bacon. Dean is at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand while Fergus sits at the table, flour in his hair,  jam on his nose and a grin on his face as he energetically stirs a huge bowl of batter with a wooden spoon. Chocolate chips scatter the tabletop, swaths of sugar and smears of butter. On the counter, Dean's ipod is playing Black Sabbeth as loud as it can go. The boy freezes when he catches sight of the tall man in the doorway, slowing his stirring and shrinking in on himself.

  
"Okay, kid, that batter ready?" Dean asks over his shoulder, starting to turn and halting when he, too, sees his brother. "Oh, uh, hey Sam."

  
"Hi," Sam says, fighting a grin. "You guys making breakfast?"

  
"Dean's letting me help," Fergus volunteers, holding up the dripping spoon.

  
"Yeah?" Sam takes a seat across the table from the boy and watches Dean transfer his current batch of pancakes to the growing pile on a nearby plate. "You like cooking, Fergus?"

  
"I- no!" The boy responds immediately, defensive, and pushes the bowl of batter away. "I ken menfolk aren't s'posed to like cookin'… I was just helping because–"

  
"Hey, I like cooking," Dean interjects. "And, uh, so does Sam. Right?"

  
"Yeah," Sam agrees, catching on. "And we're 'menfolk', aren't we?"

  
Fergus looks at Dean and nods, then side-eyes Sam. "Probably?" He looks startled when Dean almost falls over laughing.

  
Sam rolls his eyes and continues. "There's nothing wrong with liking cooking, okay?"

  
"…Aye," the boy agrees reluctantly.

  
"Good." Sam stands and gets a damp cloth to wipe down the table. "So what else do you like to do? Read?"

  
"Cannae read," Fergus shrugs. "But um… I- I quite like mendin' things."

  
"You mean like sewing?"

  
"Aye."

  
"Explains why he became a tailor," says Bobby, stepping through the door with Cas behind him. "Smelled you guys cooking from down the hall. What's for breakfast?"

  
"Magic scrambled eggs," Fergus declares. "And feckin' enchanted pancakes."

  
Dean cracks up again while Sam and Cas stare in confusion, and Bobby chuckles to himself.

 


	6. Chapter 6

When breakfast is more or less complete, they bring it all out to the larger table and set out plates, gathering around and digging in. Like the day before, Fergus eats like most ten-year-olds: that is to say, as if he were powered by a black hole. By the time he stops eating, the previously off-white shirt he wears is tie-dyed with juice, syrup, jam, chocolate and god knows what else, and Bobby figures it's probably time to get the kid a bath and a change of clothes.

He brings Fergus to one of the bathrooms, running a half-full tub with warm, soapy water, and hands him a towel and washcloth. "I'm gonna go try and find you some clothes that'll fit. You okay on your own?"

Fergus rolls his eyes. "I ken how baths work." He tugs his shirt up and immediately gets his head stuck in an armhole, glued there by the sticky conglomeration of breakfast drying in his hair and on his face. Bobby bites back a laugh and helps the kid pry himself loose of the entangling fabric, the slight smile fading from his face when he sees the maze of lash marks across the boy's back. The sight of them makes his own back twinge with familiarity, and he steps away once Fergus is freed of his shirt. "I'll go look for those clothes," he repeats, heading out and closing the door behind himself.

He goes scrounging through everybody's closet, grumbling under his breath that is only they'd been at his old house, he'd have plenty of Sam and Dean's childhood clothes that he could just pull from the attic. But no, that's all burned down and now all they've got is the oversized flannel his beanstalk sons wear.

"Bobby?" He turns to see Cas standing in the doorway with a bag in each hand. "Dean suggested that I go to the local Goodwill and purchase some clothing for… Fergus." He holds the bags out for the hunter to take. "I hope my selection is appropriate; Dean gave me a checklist."

"Thanks, Cas." Bobby accepts the bags and digs through them, finding a variety of shirts, pants, and mismatched socks, as well as an unopened package of underwear. He knocks at the bathroom door before opening it and dropping the bags inside without looking. "Should be somethin' in there that'll fit ya," he says, and hears Fergus' sound of confirmation. 

Ten minutes later, as Bobby and the other hunters continue their fruitless research, the boy comes padding into the living room wearing a large t-shirt that bears a cartoon tyrannosaur and the logo for the Field Museum, some slightly too long jeans rolled up around his ankles to reveal one green sock and one grey. "Thanks," he says, placing the bag with the remaining clothes onto the floor.

"Ah, you might as well put the rest of 'em in your room," Dean says with a shrug. "We don't know how long you're gonna be– uh, staying with us."

Fergus goes still. "Yer gonnae send me back?"

Bobby stands up from his chair, approaches the boy and places a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye as he says, "Hey. I promise you, whatever ends up happening, we ain't sending you back there. We got a lotta stuff to figure out, but I promise you that much. Okay?"

"Aye." Fergus shifts from one foot to the other, picks the bag back up.

"Hey," Sam speaks up from behind his laptop. "I dunno if it's related, but get this– this guy went missing a few days ago in the same town we picked him up." He gestures at Fergus, then continues, turning his laptop to face them. "His name's Jake Rosaldo. Look familiar?"

There's an article blurb about the missing man, and a photo. The guy's smiling and hugging a woman (his wife, the article says), pretty different from the way they last saw him, but Bobby recognizes him. "That's the guy from the motel room. The dead demon."

"Could be a lead," Dean says. "I say we suit up, head over there and do a little snooping, see how he ended up kebabed in Crowley's room."

"Good idea," Bobby agrees.

"Why not bring Fergus along?" Castiel suggests. "He may recognize a person or place related to the case."

"Hmm." Bobby glances at the boy, who looks confused. "I dunno about that. How would we explain a kid tagging along with a bunch of FBI agents?"

Dean shrugs. "Call it a ride-along."

"Or 'take your kid to work' day," Sam offers.

Bobby turns toward Fergus. "Whaddya think, kid? You up for a field trip?"

The boy frowns. "I've not done much work in the fields."

"Ah, no that's- not what I meant… I mean, do you want to come help us? No fields."

"Oh." Fergus considers. "Would I get to wear tartan like yours?"

"Tartan-?" Bobby looks down at himself and realizes that the kid is talking about the various plaid flannel shirts that the hunters wear. "Right. Well, I guess if you want. I mean, we'll be wearing suits, but yeah, you can borrow a shirt."

Fergus grins and nods. "Alright, then."


End file.
